


with you i'll go

by cerasi



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Otabek Altin, Aged-Up Yuri Plisetsky, Anal Sex, Desperate Arousal, Dick Is Too Big, Fantasizing, First Time, Inexperienced Sex, Large Cock, M/M, Sexual Frustration, Sharing Clothes, Slightly experienced Yuri / Less experienced Otabek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-19 10:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10637913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerasi/pseuds/cerasi
Summary: The trip from Milan to Florence is three and a half hours by high-speed rail, and Yuri spends all of it half-hard and full of nervous energy.Yuri and Otabek take a trip in Italy after Worlds in Milan.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doxian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doxian/gifts).



> Hello doxian! Thank you for your lovely notes on this pairing; it was hard to narrow down to just a few for this fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> This fic takes place after Worlds in March 2018. There is drinking, but no drunk sex, and all sexual content is very consensual.
> 
> Title is based on the Italian song _Con te partirò_ by Andrea Bocelli.

The trip from Milan to Florence is three and a half hours by high-speed rail, and Yuri spends all of it half-hard and full of nervous energy.

Music is his usual outlet for the kind of anxious excitement that’s prickling at his pulse points now, but he can’t very well dig his headphones out of his bag when Otabek—his _boyfriend_ —is sitting in the leather seat right across from him. He taps his fingers on the windowsill and watches the countryside get smeared into green and yellow streaks.

Otabek starts to underline something in the travel guide spread out in his lap, and Yuri is drawn to watch the precise movement of his pencil along the page. Even after a year of dating, getting to _look_ at Otabek like this is a rare treat. Otabek exists mostly in text messages and phone calls, a steady voice in his ear late at night when he’s exhausted from practice or annoyed at his teammates or frustrated at his progress on the rink.

Yuri likes that voice, but he also likes this: the shocking realness of Otabek up close; his dark eyelashes, the cut of his jaw, his large, strong hands.

Yuri shifts and crosses his legs. Okay, so maybe he’s more than half-hard. After this long, he has the right to be.

But Otabek looks unbothered, so Yuri swallows his impatience and forces his gaze back out the window.

“ _Bevande?_ ” An attendant with a clipboard appears at Yuri’s shoulder, and he startles.

“What?”

“Do you want something to drink?” Otabek translates, and the woman smiles and mimes a cup.

Yuri scowls. He wants a coke, since Yakov’s not around to yell at him about the sugar, but he’s not sure his nerves can handle the caffeine. Plus, he’s in _first class_ , and Italy’s drinking laws are one of the few things he’s researched for this trip. “Wine?” he says, and then repeats it in English.

“ _Rosso o bianco?_ ”

“Um,” he says. The only wine he’s actually ever had is champagne, and he doesn’t really like that; it’s sour, and it makes his mouth feel dry. But he doesn’t want Otabek to think he needs any more help, so he quickly decides, “Red. Uh, _rosso._ ”

She smiles again as she pours it for him, and says something in Italian when she hands him the stemless glass.

He tastes it cautiously, but it’s mellow and almost sweet, and the first swallow relieves a precious inch of tension in his chest.

Otabek orders an iced tea, and for a moment after the attendant leaves, he ignores the book in his lap and keeps his eyes on Yuri’s face instead. A smile plays on his lips, and Yuri can feel his cheeks grow hot. They’re so, so close to being alone.

With some effort, he smirks and and raises his chin as he settles back into his seat. He’s lifting his wine glass to his lips when outside the train, a flash of white catches his eye.

“Beka, look,” he says, and presses his nose to the glass. “Sheep!”

Sheep must be ordinary in a countryside like this, he realizes too late—but if Otabek thinks his excitement is foolish, he’s nice enough not to let it show. He leans forward and watches attentively as more and more of them start to appear on the slopes of the rolling hills, and when Yuri looks over at him, he smiles and reaches to lace their fingers together.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this,” he says, quietly.

Maybe it’s just the wine, but for the first time in months, Yuri feels himself completely relax. Otabek is here, and Worlds is over, and they have 10 days to make up for lost time.

“Yeah,” he agrees, and grins. “It’s gonna be great.”

His blissful mood lasts through the rest of the train ride, through the winding walk from the train station to their hotel.

When they get there, Yuri hangs back and twists his hands into knots in his jacket pockets while Otabek deals with the front desk.

He’s stayed in plenty of hotel rooms, but this is different. Even at the Olympic village a month ago, when he got his own room thanks to Viktor shacking up with the Japanese team, he never managed to spend a night with Otabek. _We should concentrate before our events_ , Otabek said beforehand, and then, after the celebratory party at which Yuri admittedly drank too much vodka to outdo Yuuri, _You ought to sleep this off before your flight tomorrow_.

He even wondered, through the sour haze of his hangover the next day, if Otabek _wanted_ time alone with him.

Because it can be hard to tell, sometimes. Otabek was the one to say that he liked Yuri as more than a friend; Otabek kissed him the first time, at Worlds in Helsinki last year, and asked if Yuri would be his boyfriend. But when it comes to sex, it’s never quite clear what he wants. Maybe it’s just his old-man distrust of technology, but he never responds with more than polite acknowledgement to Yuri’s attempts to cajole him into dirty talk by text or phone.

But then he proposed this trip: a tour of Italy after Worlds in Milan, just the two of them, without coaches or relatives or events. A week and a half to finally be _alone_ , a promise that Yuri has no trouble interpreting.

Or so he thinks, right up until they’ve heaved their bags upstairs and he asks Otabek their room number.

“We’re in 204 and 205,” Otabek says. He holds out a large brass key. When Yuri takes it, the way his hand falls with the weight mirrors what’s going on inside his chest.

“...We have two rooms?”

Otabek is turned to unlock one of the rooms, but his shoulders seem to stiffen at the question. “Well, they’re adjoining,” he says.

The rooms are adjoining, and they’re nice—antique furniture and shelves full of old books and a large window with a window seat and a sprawling view of red-tiled roofs. But two rooms means two _beds_ , a fact that sits cold in Yuri’s chest even as Otabek leads him on a tour of the city.

They start at a gelato shop, where Otabek gets a cone of what looks like vanilla, and Yuri gets a tall cone layered with chocolate chip, sour cherry, and hazelnut, all creamier and more delicious than any ice cream he’s ever had. They walk with their cones to a wide piazza, where they sit on massive concrete steps and look out over the city as the afternoon light turns golden.

Yuri licks at the side of his gelato to save a sour cherry from escaping, and when a smear of it lands on his cheek, Otabek smiles and wipes it off with his thumb. He licks his thumb clean, and Yuri has only a second to register how stupidly hot that is before Otabek is leaning over and lifting his chin to kiss him.

It’s a chaste kiss, but with Otabek that’s all it takes to send his heart soaring. He snatches a handful of Otabek’s collar without thinking, and Otabek indulges him with another kiss and a warm hand on the small of his back that makes him gasp against Otabek’s mouth. Otabek pulls back and smiles. “I’ve been looking forward to doing that,” he says.

Yuri smiles back, and the warmth flooding his chest is enough to make him forget for now about their sleeping arrangements.

Otabek takes him to a sprawling private garden complete with hedge mazes and fountains, where they wander hand in hand and take pictures until it gets too dark to see, and then to a tiny restaurant where they eat by candlelight, and by the time they get back to the hotel, Yuri feels lightheaded with wine and romance.

“This way,” he says at the door, and Otabek goes easily when Yuri pulls him into his room.

He tugs at Otabek’s shirt until his face is close, and then they’re kissing, _really_ kissing; his tongue is in Otabek’s mouth, and Otabek’s hands are firm on his waist. An untamed noise rises involuntarily from his throat, and Otabek tightens his grip and draws him closer.

If he was lightheaded before, he’s actually dizzy now, his whole body nothing more than a taut bundle of need. He aches for Otabek to close the tiny gap between their bodies and give his straining dick some relief; to be lifted up by Otabek’s strong hands, pushed up against a wall or thrown onto the bed. He aches to be _fucked_ , to be held down and pinned in place as Otabek drives every thought out of his head.

He moans into Otabek’s mouth and digs fingernails into the softness of his scalp, and Otabek startles, and makes a soft, broken sound as he pulls away.

“Yuri,” he says. His voice is hoarse and reverent.

Yuri growls, but when he tries to pull Otabek back into another kiss, Otabek holds firm. His mouth looks soft as his eyes flick over Yuri’s face, his chest, his skintight jeans that are clearly keeping no secrets.

“You are so lovely,” he murmurs, and it’s just like him, Yuri thinks, to say something weird like that at a moment like this.

Yuri blushes. “Don’t just _stare_.”

Otabek smiles and leans in, but the kiss he presses to Yuri’s mouth is soft and brief. “I should go,” he says.

“What? Why?”

Otabek touches his face, presses a thumb against his lower lip, and it’s not fair for him to be so goddamn arousing as he says, “I have to slow down before I lose my mind kissing you.”

“But I want that,” Yuri protests, and shudders as Otabek’s hand comes down to cup his face. “Beka, _please_.”

Otabek’s eyebrows draw together, and an expression that Yuri can’t quite read flickers over his face. “I would rather if we took our time,” he says, quietly. “Is that okay?”

It’s _not_ okay, but Otabek looks so earnest that Yuri forces himself to swallow the biting response that rises in his throat. He doesn’t want to mess things up so soon. It’s only the first night; he still has time to figure out how to break through Otabek’s strange hesitation.

But the second night goes the same way: after an itinerary of long strolls and scenic views and intimate restaurants, Otabek kisses him indulgently in his doorway for a few minutes then retires, leaving him hot and dizzy and utterly unsatisfied.

It doesn’t make sense. Otabek seems to _want_ more, but he doesn’t explain why he won’t take advantage of their last opportunity to have it in what might be weeks or even months.

His tone doesn’t leave any room for argument, though, so Yuri bites his tongue. When he’s gone, Yuri jerks off on his hands and knees, imagining Otabek’s hands on his hips and shouting his frustration into his pillow.

He’s glad he does, because the next day they travel south to a bed and breakfast in wine country, and when they check in, there’s only one key.

The room is small, but it’s split into mirrored halves like a twin boys’ bedroom—two windows, two nightstands, and two narrow beds pushed tight against the walls.

Yuri scowls and throws his duffel onto the one on the left. “Did they not have a second room, or something?”

“I thought it would be nice to share.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says, and flops onto his bed with a huff. “Great.”

Otabek looks pained. “Yuri, I know this isn’t how you would do things, but... I hope you understand—”

“It’s fine,” Yuri interrupts. He sits up and corrals his tone so that Otabek will stop looking at him like that. “It’s fine,” he says again. “Let’s just—go do whatever we’re doing.”

What they do is a wine tasting tour, and the thrill of swirling each sample and nodding along with the well-dressed older couples as he pretends to know what the fuck they’re appraising helps make up for the infantilizing sleeping situation back at the inn.

Otabek spits out all his wine like they’re supposed to and doesn’t seem to swallow any, but Yuri gets bored of that and by the end is drinking everything that’s handed to him. He gets a few disdainful looks as he stumbles into Otabek’s side after the last stop, but Otabek doesn’t seem to mind; he puts an arm around Yuri’s shoulders and lets Yuri lean on him heavily as they make their way back to town.

The restaurants aren’t open yet, so they go back to the bed and breakfast, where Otabek goes downstairs to ask the owners for recommendations, and Yuri draws himself a pre-dinner bath in the bathroom’s clawfoot tub.

He soaks until he’s mostly sober and the water is cool, but when he comes out, Otabek still hasn’t returned. He loosens the towel from his waist and frowns. Otabek knew he was in the bath; maybe he’s avoiding giving Yuri extra time to avoid walking in on him as he’s changing.

His frown turns into a scowl, and a rush of annoyance has him throwing his towel on the floor and stalking across the room to Otabek’s suitcase. He digs through it until he finds what he’s looking for: a yellow and blue Team Kazakhstan t-shirt that’s satisfyingly oversized when he pulls it on. He pairs it with the shortest, tightest boxer-briefs he owns, and when Otabek finally comes back into the room, he’s lounging insouciantly on his bed, choosing a snapchat filter for the selfie he’s going to share. If he can’t _actually_ enjoy a week of total debauchery with his boyfriend, the least he can do is give Yakov a heart attack by pretending to.

Making Otabek’s jaw drop is honestly an afterthought—but when it does, visibly, even from the corner of his eye, Yuri feels a vicious flash of satisfaction.

“Hey,” he says, and willfully keeps his eyes trained on his phone. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“Hi,” Otabek says. He doesn’t move from the doorway. There’s a long pause, and then: “You’re wearing my shirt.”

Yuri hums in response and takes his time before he glances down at it. “Oh,” he says. “Yeah. It looked comfortable.”

“...It was in my suitcase.”

Yuri finally looks up, and he almost laughs when he does. Otabek’s face is a vivid red, and his mouth is still hanging open. It seems to pain him when he swallows to close it.

Yuri pushes himself onto his elbows. “What, do you want me to take it off?”

“No! No, that’s… No. It’s fine.” He finally comes inside, and Yuri can see that he’s blushing to the tips of his ears.

Yuri sprawls onto his side. “You sure?”

Otabek is sitting cross-legged on his bed, his travel guide spread open on his lap and pulled too close to his body to look quite natural. “You can keep it, if you want,” he says, after a long silence. “You look good in it.”

It feels like Yuri’s won a victory, but somehow it’s not enough—Otabek leaves him in own bed at the end of the night, and he goes to sleep with his back to Yuri’s glowering.

Yuri keeps the shirt, though. He _does_ look good in it.

By the time their next train pulls into Rome’s chaotic Termini station, Yuri’s determination to be a good travel companion has worn thin. The crowds annoy him, the indecipherable loudspeaker annoys him, and Otabek’s travel guide, dog-eared and filled with colored post-it notes, makes him want to scream.

To be fair, his own idea of trip planning is to search _What are taxis called in Japanese_ on his phone as he’s waiting in an immigration line, so—it’s not like he doesn’t appreciate that Otabek did all the work finding hotels and plotting train routes. But Otabek seems to have charted out every point of interest everywhere they go, and the whole thing gives Yuri the impression that he’s following an inevitable course that includes everything except him getting laid.

“Can’t you just use the internet for this?” Yuri gripes. They’re in a walkway inside the train station, Otabek sitting on a bench and Yuri pacing in tight circles near him.

“I don’t have an international data plan,” Otabek says, and frowns at the page.

“ _I_ do.”

“It’s fine, that’s expensive.”

Yuri huffs and shoves his hands into his pockets. Otabek hasn’t spared any expense on this trip so far; that he draws the line at _data charges_ , Yuri suspects, has more to do with his distaste for the technological.

“Okay, the _Ponte Milvio_ is way up north, so we should probably skip that,” Otabek finally says. “We can either start at Piazza Navona and see the _Ponte Sant’Angelo_ , or we can start over here with the San Crispino gelato and then head south.” He looks up. “What do you think?”

“Does it matter?”

Otabek’s expression slips, and Yuri grits his teeth.

“I mean—either way is fine? You’re the one who knows all this stuff, you decide.”

“Yuri…” Otabek looks a little crestfallen, and Yuri feels a pang of guilt for snapping at him. He’s opening his mouth to apologize when Otabek says, “I’m sorry, I know I’ve been making all these decisions for us.”

Yuri sighs and sits down on the bench next to him. “No, it’s fine,” he says. “I’m glad you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Well… This is just what I thought would make a good trip,” Otabek says. “But we should do the things you want to do, too.”

What Yuri wants to do is go straight to their hotel and get fucked until he can’t walk, but apparently that’s off the table. “I don’t know,” he says. “Why don’t you tell me what you had planned?”

Otabek flips to a blank page in the book that’s been filled in pencil with a set of lists titled _Rome_. There’s a cluster of what looks like places to eat, and another few clusters of piazzas and bridges and historical sites grouped in ways Yuri doesn’t understand. He’s about to give up on having an opinion when he notices, off to the side and by itself, the word _shopping_.

He points. “What’s that mean _?_ ”

“Oh,” Otabek says. “Well, Rome is famous for fashion, so I thought maybe you’d like to—”

“ _Yes_.” Despite the scale of the train station, it’s somehow only hitting him now that Rome is a big, modern city—a realization that suddenly has his head spinning with the outline of a plan. “Beka, let’s go out tonight.”

“Out?”

“Like— _clubbing_.”

“Oh.” Otabek looks thoughtful. “Sure, if you want to. I know a DJ who lives here, actually. I can ask for recommendations.”

Otabek texts his DJ friend, and they head out for sightseeing, Yuri in a much better mood already at the promise of finally getting to do something exciting.

They spend most of the afternoon in Rome’s ritzy shopping districts, where Yuri fills up three giant shopping bags and Otabek mostly just trails along, offering occasional input. He responds approvingly to all the outfits Yuri models, but none of them elicit a reaction quite like his Team Kazakhstan shirt did. Yuri is determined to outdo himself, so he stops showing off the pieces he thinks suit him best, intending to hold off for a big reveal once he’s gotten everything right.

They’re sharing a room again, so after dinner he uses the bathroom to change into his outfit: white pants so close-fitting they’re practically leggings and a black top that’s down the shoulders and back, dotted with black velvet in a leopard print. He finishes the look with a thin choker wrapped around his neck, plus eyeliner for good measure. He stands back to admire himself in the mirror on the door. He looks like someone who couldn’t possibly fail to get laid tonight.

But when he makes his entrance into the room, it’s his turn to feel his jaw drop.

Otabek is… well, he’s not dressed _very_ differently. He’s wearing his leather jacket, and shiny leather shoes that Yuri’s seen before. But the soft-looking shirt is new, and so are the tight dark jeans and the silk scarf draped over his neck. Yuri’s pretty sure he didn’t buy anything today; he must have had them packed.

“Jeez.” Otabek gives him a questioning look, so he blushes and mumbles, “You look really hot.”

“Oh,” Otabek says, and smiles. When he steps close, he even _smells_ nice, like fancy cologne. “You too,” he says, and Yuri shivers as Otabek kisses his cheek.

He’s less excited to leave their room, after that, but his enthusiasm returns when Otabek brings them to the place his friend recommended—a neon-lit dance club in the Trastevere neighborhood where the bouncer seems to be expecting them and lets them cut the line.

The last time he tried to get into a club with Otabek, in Barcelona, he wasn’t even allowed inside—so it’s a thrill to be escorted in without so much as a question. The bouncer even catches the eye of one of the bartenders, who tilts his head and is ready for Yuri’s order after he fights his way through the crowd. Yuri asks for two double vodkas and pushes one into Otabek’s hand.

“Do a shot with me!” he shouts.

Otabek tilts it in his hand, and for a second Yuri wonders if he's going to refuse. Now that he thinks about it, Otabek’s barely drunk anything this whole trip, not even wine—the most he's had is a sip of Yuri’s when Yuri has insisted he try it.

But he lifts the glass, and after clinking it with Yuri’s he downs it smoothly. Yuri does the same, and then he’s pulling Otabek into the crowd, reveling in the humid air and the space of breath between them.

Sometimes Yuri forgets that Otabek has trained professionally in movement; there's something stiff and formal about him that only seems to disappear when he's on the ice. But Yuri has never been with him in a place like this, and once they start to dance, Otabek moves in easy counterpoint to him.

Everything feels fluid: the music, the ebbing of bodies pressed against them, the warm slide of Otabek’s hands on his waist. They're surrounded by more people than ever, but somehow it's easy to imagine that it's just the two of them, alone, moving together as music pounds through them.

“Beka,” Yuri breathes into his ear on a whim, and to his surprise, Otabek responds by grabbing his chin and kissing him, right in the middle of the dance floor. Yuri lets out a noise of shock. “ _Beka_ ,”  he whines.  

He's not sure when the alcohol got to his head, but he's dizzy now, and Otabek’s hands on him are the only thing he can feel. In fact, he's not sure how long he's felt this way. The whole expanse of the club seems to be pounding in his veins, and for once Otabek isn't holding back. When Yuri moves, he moves with him, and when Yuri tugs him close and bites under his jaw, he jolts like he's been shocked. They're kissing again, all of a sudden, and Yuri realizes with a flood of heat that the shape pressing into him is Otabek’s cock, hard against his stomach.

Yuri groans and pulls him closer, and he doesn't resist; they're not even dancing anymore, just rutting against each other in the middle of the floor.

“Fuck _,_ ” Yuri gasps, and stares dazzled at the light-splattered ceiling.

Otabek’s hands are on his ass and his mouth is pressed to his collarbone, and Yuri wonders if he could come right here in the midst of all these people, wonders if he would care.

He probably could, he thinks, but he doesn't want to. “Beka, let’s—” he says, and it’s not even a complete thought, but when he tugs on Otabek’s collar, Otabek seems to understand. They push through the dance floor, past some restrooms and out an exit in the back.

The night air is a shock to his thinly-covered skin, but Otabek is close behind him, and the heat from his body has Yuri grabbing his hand and setting out brazenly into the labyrinth of unfamiliar streets.

“Here,” Yuri says, when they stumble upon an unlit stretch of alley. “ _Please,_ Beka—”

But he doesn’t have to ask. Otabek kisses him, and when Yuri wraps his arms around his neck, he pushes Yuri against one of the crumbling plaster walls and pins him there. Yuri mewls and tries to wrap one of his legs around Otabek’s waist, and Otabek lets him, _helps_ him. They’re pressed together, kissing desperately, and it’s like something from one of Yuri’s fantasies. If he had only brought the lube from his duffel, he could probably have gotten Otabek to fuck him here against this wall, a thought that has him whimpering and bucking his hips into Otabek’s thigh.

Otabek pulls back and lets Yuri’s leg fall back to the ground, and in the dim light Yuri can see that his eyes are huge and dark. “Yuri,” he whispers hoarsely, “I can’t think.”

“Good,” Yuri says, and drops to his knees.

The road is paved with cobblestones that dig into his shins, but the discomfort is worth it for the strangled cry that Otabek lets out when Yuri noses at the outline of his cock.

Yuri has done this before, twice, but both times were with skaters he barely knew, just burning off adrenaline in the tense boredom between events. He didn’t care much if they enjoyed it, but with Otabek in front of him now, it’s all he can think about. Otabek is making small, incoherent noises as Yuri explores the front of his jeans, and Yuri wonders with a zing of pleasure if he’s surprised, if he thought Yuri wouldn’t do something like this.

He licks a wet patch where he can feel the tip of Otabek’s cock, and Otabek gasps.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he hisses. He grabs at Yuri’s shoulders, and Yuri feels a thrill of victory; he’s never heard Otabek swear before. His mouth is watering unbearably.

He reaches up to unbuckle Otabek’s belt, and Otabek’s breathing turns harsh. He’s panting something, low and hoarse, and it’s not until Yuri has his belt undone that he realizes what it is.

“Wait,” Otabek gasps out, “wait—Yuri, stop—”

His hands are still tight around Yuri’s shoulders, holding him in place. Yuri hesitates. Then he looks up.

Otabek is standing totally still, and his face is contorted, like he’s struggling with something.

“...Beka?”

He lets out a shuddering breath. “Don’t,” he says, softly, and this time he pushes Yuri away. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I just—please don’t.” He presses a palm to Yuri’s cheek and with his other forearm falls against the wall. “Shit,” he whispers, and buries his face in his sleeve.

Yuri doesn’t move. He holds onto a sliver of hope that Otabek might just be catching his breath, but when it becomes clear he’s not, he surfaces into a cold shock of sobriety.

“Can you—get up?” Otabek asks, finally.

Yuri does, but by the time he’s standing, his shock has given way to a hot, unpleasant feeling in his stomach. “What’s your problem?” he asks.

“I’m sorry. This was… it was a mistake.”

“What was?” Yuri demands. “Doing the one thing I’ve actually wanted to do in this whole stupid trip? Being _normal_ for once, instead of acting like you’ve taken a fucking vow of celibacy?”

Otabek’s jaw shifts, and his eyes flick down to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says again. He reaches out and touches the backs of his fingers to Yuri’s cheek. “You make it easy for me to lose myself,” he says, quietly, “but I don’t want that.”

“You sure seemed to want it,” Yuri retorts, and Otabek looks away.

“Of course I do. Just… Not like this.”

“Then what? What are you waiting for, privacy? We’ve had _three different_ hotel rooms.”

“I know,” Otabek says, and at least he finally looks a little embarrassed. “I didn’t want to rush into anything. I wanted… I wanted to be sure we were both… you know. Ready.”

Comprehension slips over Yuri like water down his back. Otabek doesn’t think _Yuri_ is ready. He jerks away. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “Don’t treat me like a fucking child.”

He turns around and walks away as fast he can, and he goes down the first side street he sees.

It’s a long time before he gets back to the hotel. It shouldn’t be; it was only a 15 minute walk when they went out, and the awning outside is easy to spot. But the streets of Rome are maddeningly twisted, and without the guidance of Otabek or his phone, which he left to preserve the line of his pants, he ends up miles off-course before he finally finds someone who can point him in the right direction.

By the time he slides his key card and pushes open the door, Otabek is already back in their room. He’s sitting hunched-over on his bed, but when he sees Yuri, he stands up, and his face floods visibly with relief.

“You’re okay,” he says.

Yuri bristles and stalks inside. “Of course I’m okay.”

“...I was worried.”

“Well, fucking _don’t_ be,” Yuri snaps, and falls onto his bed with his arms crossed over his chest.

Otabek hesitates, then sits down again on the edge of his bed.

Yuri steams in his own resentment for a long stretch. He waits for Otabek to say something, but when he doesn’t, Yuri sits up.

“If you think I need you to hold my hand and make decisions for me, you’re wrong,” he says. “I know what I’m doing, okay? Giving head isn’t even a big deal, I’ve done that much before.”

He’s expecting some kind of reaction to that, but Otabek just looks back at him, his face still. “I haven’t,” he says.

Yuri stares at him. Then he frowns. “What?”

“I haven’t done that,” Otabek says again, and his voice is quiet but steady. “You know everything I’ve done.”

Yuri opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t think of anything to say but: “ _What?_ ” He shakes his head. “You mean even like—kissing?”

Otabek breaks Yuri’s gaze and looks at the floor. “Yes,” he says, and it’s the pinkness of his cheeks that finally has the pieces clicking into place in Yuri’s brain. Otabek is telling the truth. And he’s _nervous_.

The world tilts strangely. Yuri’s not sure why it seems so absurd to him, enough that he didn’t even consider it. He knows that Otabek has been devoted to training most of his life, and it makes sense, now that he thinks about it, that Otabek wouldn’t be the type to seek out quick hook-ups if he didn’t have time for a relationship.

But he rides motorcycles; he’s a DJ; he’s wearing a fucking _leather jacket_. In Helsinki he took Yuri to the top of the Olympic stadium tower and kissed him with both hands cupping his face, like something from a movie. It’s almost impossible to believe that was the first time he’d ever done it.

“I should have told you,” Otabek says, and Yuri feels a sharp tug of guilt.

“No, Beka,” he says. “I’m sorry for being…” He trails off, his face turning red as the past four days play back with the tint of this new reality. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles again. “If you don’t want to do that stuff, it’s fine. I wasn’t trying to be a dick about it, or anything.” He laces his fingers in his lap one way, and then the other. “And—I didn’t mean what I said before, about this trip being stupid. I’ve had a really good time doing all the stuff you planned.”

He looks up to see Otabek smiling at him. “I’m glad,” he says. His smile widens, and he adds, “I had a good time clubbing with you, too.”

Yuri laughs, and Otabek laughs too, his chin dipping close to his chest. Then he falls quiet, and it’s a few seconds before he speaks again. “I was... also hoping,” he says, “that this trip would be a chance to be intimate. Physically. With you.”

“...You were?”

Otabek nods. “I do want that,” he says. “It’s just—I wanted to spend some time with you first.” He lowers his gaze for a moment, then looks up. “It’s not the same, only getting to hear your voice.”

Yuri’s stomach swoops, and he nods. “Yeah,” he agrees. “It sucks.”

Otabek smiles, and he pushes himself off his bed and comes to sit next to Yuri, his knee touching Yuri’s thigh. “I’m sorry for making you wait,” he says. “I wanted my first time to be with someone I cared about, and… I do care about you. I like you so much, Yuri.”

“I like you, too,” Yuri says, and blushes.

Otabek touches his chin and leans in. They kiss for a while, careful and unhurried, and while Yuri’s dick is straining for attention again, it’s his chest that aches the most when Otabek pulls back.

“I don’t think I need to wait anymore,” Otabek says softly.

“Are—you sure?”

Otabek nods, and Yuri’s heart leaps. “I thought it would be tomorrow,” Otabek says, “but it doesn’t have to be.”

“Oh,” Yuri says. Then he frowns. “You had it all planned out, didn’t you?”

“I.... yeah,” Otabek says, and blushes. “But—now would be okay, too.”

Yuri laughs and drops his head onto Otabek’s shoulder, and for the first time all week, the pulse of urgency lets up in his veins. “It’s like two in the morning,” he points out. “Maybe we should sleep first.”

“Okay,” Otabek says. He touches his head to Yuri’s and rubs his thumb over Yuri’s wrist. “I did have something kind of nice in mind,” he says, and Yuri can hear him smile.

Their final stop is Naples, and if Yuri had thought to wonder why they were spending half their trip in a single place, he would have understood as soon as he saw their room.

“Beka!” he exclaims.

They’re staying in a villa on a peninsula far from the city, and through the doors to the balcony that are standing open when they walk in, Yuri can see the ocean glittering bright blue beneath them. The air is warmer here, and the breeze that laps gently inside smells like clean salt water.

The room is huge, with a sitting area on one side and a small kitchen on the other, complete with an espresso machine on the counter. But the most important feature of the room is in the center: a single, huge bed with four posters and sheer white curtains spilling onto the floor.

It’s a goddamn _honeymoon suite_ , Yuri thinks, and he laughs out loud in delight.

“Do you like it?” Otabek asks, and Yuri pulls him down for a kiss.

They take their time. Yuri is acutely aware of how deliberate Otabek is being, like he’s trying to memorize each new escalation of touch to file away for later recollection. Yuri doesn’t rush him, and though it’s for Otabek’s sake, there’s something gratifying about being undressed and explored over what feels like hours, about ignoring his desperate need for more and letting it wash over him until it’s a deep, pleasurable ache.

But when they’re finally naked together, when Otabek has touched and kissed every part of him until he thinks a strong breeze from the window would be enough to make him come, Otabek cradles his face and asks, “What do you want?”

“Fuck me, Beka, please,” Yuri whispers back, and Otabek kisses him and moans softly in assent.

There’s another long stretch of exploration after that: Otabek’s fingers pushing into him and slicking him up, curling and moving in simulation of what he so desperately wants until he’s arching off the bed, breathlessly begging for more.

“Beka,” he groans. “ _Hurry_.”

But Otabek doesn’t move, and when Yuri opens his eyes, he sees Otabek frowning.

“What’s wrong? Do—do you not want to…?”

“I do,” Otabek says quickly, and then, “Um.”

Yuri waits. “What?” he finally asks, when Otabek doesn’t say anything.

“Are… you sure this is going to feel good? For you?” He’s holding his cock in his hand, already clad with a condom, and when he frowns again at it, Yuri laughs.

“It’ll be _fine_.” He sits up and pushes Otabek onto his back, then throws a leg over his waist to straddle him. “Here,” he says. “Is this okay?”

Otabek stares up at him, pupils wide. “Yeah,” he says, finally, and exhales. “Yeah.”

Yuri takes hold of Otabek’s cock, pushes it into position between his legs, and sinks down.

And then he falls silent. It is _not_ fine. Otabek’s cock is amply sized, and while Yuri had counted that as a blessing when he saw it, he’s regretting that opinion now with every cell of his body. He lets out a wild, strangled noise and shuts his eyes tight as pain throbs through him.

He’s stuck still, shaking. He managed to seat himself fully in his first foolhardy movement, but now he can’t do anything but clutch at Otabek’s stomach and gasp in tiny, shallow breaths. “Oh,” he finally manages to whimper, high-pitched, “oh _fuck_.”

In all his imagined scenarios of being thrown down onto surfaces and fucked until he blacked out screaming, somehow it hadn’t totally occurred to him that it might actually _hurt_. All of his senses but feeling are blotted out, and he’s not aware that he’s losing time until he surfaces to the sound of his own keening and the sensation of Otabek’s arms wrapped firm around his back.

“Breathe,” Otabek murmurs.

He gasps in a breath, and sparks fly behind his eyelids.

“There,” Otabek is is saying softly, “good, keep breathing,” and Yuri realizes that his face is wet in the crook of Otabek’s neck.

He breathes in again, ragged, and when he exhales Otabek runs warm palms down his back and kisses under his jaw. “Relax your muscles,” he says, and Yuri _can’t,_ he claws at Otabek’s shoulders and whines, but Otabek tries again. “Drop your left arm,” he says.

Yuri doesn’t know how—some deep imprint from ballet, probably—but his body responds, and his arm goes slack.

“Your right arm,” Otabek says, and when he stops curling forward to cling to Otabek’s back, it’s suddenly easier to breathe. Otabek murmurs gentle commands until Yuri is boneless in his arms, and it’s not until Otabek tips him backward onto the bed that Yuri realizes that Otabek is still inside him, but that the pain of it has ebbed away.

“Beka,” Yuri breathes, and Otabek kisses his neck, mouths at it until it stings. “ _Beka_ ,” he cries. Otabek’s cock feels heavy inside him—not unpleasant, now, but unbearable in a sweet way he can’t explain. He opens his eyes, and Otabek is above him, his hair tousled and his face lit softly with afternoon light. Their eyes meet for a drawn-out moment, and then Yuri wraps his legs around Otabek’s back, and kisses him.

It’s slow again, after that. Otabek’s arms are planted by Yuri’s head, but he runs his fingers through Yuri’s hair, and Yuri touches his face as they kiss. It’s a long time before he notices that he’s moaning softly into Otabek’s mouth, and that his dick is hard against Otabek’s stomach. It’s even longer before he notices that Otabek is rocking shallowly against him where they’re joined, and that the tiny movements are responsible for the pleasure pooling hotly at the base of his spine.

Otabek is fucking him, he realizes, and the groan that escapes him at that thought has Otabek doing it with more intent, relieving in Yuri some unnameable ache. They’re moving together; Otabek is pushing into him again and again, and without warning Yuri is breaking free of their kiss, gasping as pleasure rises in him. He’s come with Otabek’s name on his lips more times than he can count, but somehow this is different; he can’t even point to the moment it peaks. His own come spatters onto chest, and yet still it doesn’t seem to be over; he wails, and his pleasure slides into incoherence as Otabek groans into the bed and continues to fuck him for a handful of shimmering moments.

At some point he slows, and then everything is still. The curtains around them shift in the breeze.

Otabek lifts his head, and when their eyes meet, he looks how Yuri feels: dumbstruck and unbearably fond.

“Um,” he says. “Wow.”

Yuri starts to laugh. “Fuck, Beka,” he says.

They separate with some difficulty, and when they’re resituated next to each other, Otabek kisses his cheek and says, “Thank you.”

Yuri doesn’t know if it’s possible to like someone more than this. “Was that…what you wanted?” he asks.

Otabek smiles. Yeah,” he says, and Yuri’s chest feels warm with pleasure. Then Otabek reaches up and brushes Yuri’s hair from his face and asks, “Was it what you wanted?”

“Pretty close,” Yuri says, and grins.

Otabek grins back, slowly. “Yeah?”

“I think we could try it a few more times, to make sure.”

“Yeah,” Otabek says, and pulls him close. “That sounds perfect.”


End file.
